


Strange Bedfellows

by grumkin_snark



Series: Shooting Blanks [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, accidental feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 09:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13761243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: No matter how much they sleep together, Rhaegar's seed will not quicken, and Elia is desperate for an heir with Aerys as her goodfather.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is the summary, found [here](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4397.html?thread=2513197#t2513197).

“I’m sure of it this time, Maester. I haven’t bled for two moons now.”

He is paid well, she knows, for in his face there is no annoyance or pity, only encouragement. “Well, let’s have a look.”

She  _had_  been sure, and even the maester hadn’t been able to conclusively refute her findings, but weeks continue to pass with no change, and then one morning Elia awakened to find her sheets spotted with blood—a normal amount, a monthly amount, nothing to indicate a lost child. Which would have been devastating, but at least then she’d know it was only a matter of time.

It’s been five years since she and Rhaegar wed, five years of regularly taking him into her bed and praying until her throat ran hoarse that she would finally bear his heir. The whispers have been growing stronger for ages: when they’re not about her health, they’re about how she must be broken, how it’s her fault nothing is quickening, how it serves the crown right for choosing a Dornishwoman as Rhaegar’s bride.

She grows sad at that. Throughout it all, he’s never once been unkind to her, nor blamed her, simply came to do his duty. But in the last year or two, she’s begun to see the strain, for he, too, feels the pressure behind needing a child. Especially with Aerys growing madder by the hour, in case anything happened to Rhaegar in the meanwhile, it’s imperative he leave a legacy.

Greeting the dawn, Elia wanders through the dreary halls of Dragonstone until she reaches Aegon’s Garden. Being winter, nothing especially beautiful is growing, but it’s quiet, and the plants don’t snicker at her. She sits on one of the stone benches, staring into the sparse flowerbeds and wondering what exactly would happen if she  _never_  bore Rhaegar a child. Oh, she’d be set aside, surely, but then what? Back to Sunspear to see if there are any men left who want a prince’s cast-off? Or else she’d live out her days as nothing more than an aunt, nothing to show for her efforts but failure.

The scent of iron and leather passes over her, and with a jolt she looks up at the passerby, only relaxing when she recognizes the face. A comely one, it has to be said, though usually always solemn. “Ser Arthur, what brings you here?”

“I have a gift for you, princess,” he says. In one of his hands he has a single wildflower bloom, bright yellow with a sunburst of white at the center. “Mother always said the brightest flowers bloom when winter is at its fiercest.”

“Ever the romantic, your mother.” She takes the flower from him anyway, twirling it between her fingers. “Is there some occasion I’ve missed?”

“No occasion, only a flower I happened upon and a maiden who looked like she might need it.”

His use of  _happened upon_  has her sighing. “Rhaegar sent you after me, didn’t he?”

“In a fashion,” he admits. “He wishes to speak with us and I knew where to find you.” At her confusion, he elaborates, “You used to hide away for hours in the gardens of Sunspear when you were unwell. You do the same here.”

Elia blinks, surprised at the information. She’d never told him that. Then again, there’s not much she  _has_  told him. They’d not spent a lot of time together during his squireship, what with having different interests and him engaged in training more often than not. He was always polite, though, she remembers that.

“What is it that ails you?” he asks.

“What usually ails me? I thought I was pregnant, again, and I’m not. Aerys grows madder by the hour, and I can’t give the realm a prince. Not for lack of trying, mind.”

He seems unsure of what to say to that. “Well, mayhaps Rhaegar has good news for you.”

She can’t possibly imagine what news would assuage her worries, but she has nothing to lose by meeting with him either. She and Arthur make their way to Rhaegar’s solar; as they enter, she can tell from the grave expression on Rhaegar’s face that this will not be the pleasant visit Arthur had proposed. They are both invited to sit.

“I hold the two of you in too high of regard to mince words, so let me get to it,” Rhaegar begins. “I need an heir. That much is for certain, as is the fact that thus far there has been no sign of one.” Elia flushes, but Rhaegar’s tone softens. “This is no aspersion on you. My mother had troubles conceiving after me, and when her womb  _did_  quicken, more often than not the child didn’t live long. But there is a decision that needs to be made.”

She knows where this is going. “I understand what you must do.”

“I very much doubt that,” says Rhaegar. “Many would say I must find a new wife, but I am not so callous, nor am I so sure that is the best solution. I’ve spoken candidly with the maester, who mentioned that sometimes it is…sometimes the  _deficiency_  does not lie with the wife. I’m quite fond of you, Elia. Your counsel and your company have been invaluable to me, and I don’t want to send you away, especially if you are not the problem.”

Her confusion only deepens. “What are you saying? You wish to try with someone new?”

She’d almost suggested it herself, more than once. It’s not a thought she ever particularly liked to entertain, but it was hardly without precedent. Fewer kings  _didn’t_  take mistresses than those who did.

“No. I want  _you_  to.”

For a moment, she’s as perplexed as ever. And then Rhaegar’s meaning hits her like a spear. She looks from Rhaegar to the seated Kingsguard, aghast. “ _Arthur?_ You want me to take  _Arthur_  as a paramour?”

Judging by how white Arthur has gone, he’d had no idea this was coming either. “Sire, I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“There are no options for me to pursue a woman outside the bonds of marriage without publicly declaring that bastards can now be in line for the throne, and I have no intention of following in Aegon the Unworthy’s footsteps.”

“How is this any different?” Elia asks weakly.

“Because no one would know.” Not bothering to restrain a grimace, he continues, “My heir would not be of my blood, it is true, but what other recourse do I have? I fear Viserys is more like our father than anyone would like, and I would rather impale myself than risk my pugnacious cousin of Storm’s End getting anywhere near the throne.”

“Why me?” Arthur asks from beside her. “I respect you, Your Grace, but this is…you want me to break my vows in the most egregious of ways. They would be shattered beyond repair. My integrity, my honor,  _everything_.”

“I know,” says Rhaegar. “But you are the only one I would trust with this. And also…forgive me, but  _pragmatically_ , you are the only one. No matter what comes through, the child would look either Targaryen or Martell. There would be little room for suspicion.”

Arthur stares at his lap, as if to hide his damning purple eyes. All Rhaegar says is true, of course. Though Arthur has the pitch-black hair of his mother, his late father’s was a sandy blond. Outwardly, any feature could, theoretically, be passed off as inherited from Rhaegar.

For as much as her husband is concerned for her, Elia’s concern lies more for Arthur. Her part in all of this would not be particularly difficult. Arthur is kind, the brother of her dearest friend whom she’s known for most of her life, and not hard to look upon either. While she dislikes the underhanded, twisted nature of the situation, physically it would be no hard task to lie with him.

But Arthur…he would be going against every oath he’d sworn. He would father a babe he could never claim, carry the burden of knowing the future of House Targaryen would be borne of no Targaryen at all.

“You need not give me an answer now,” hastens Rhaegar, seeing Arthur’s burgeoning resentment. “Just please think on it.”

Arthur leaves the room so abruptly that his chair is nearly knocked over. The door slams, and Elia fixes Rhaegar with a withering glare. “You ask too much.”

“I did not come to this decision lightly,” he says. “You think I  _want_  to call as my heir a child that isn’t even mine? You think I want to spend every day praying rumors don’t spread? You think I want to face the possibility that it is  _I_  who’s barren? It’s shameful every way around. Yet what are my alternatives?” He runs a hand over his face, looking far older than his twenty-six years would suggest. “Do I ask too much of  _you_?”

“Me? My life has not been easy, Rhaegar, but I do not think this needs to be counted amongst my trials. It is not me you should worry for.”

“Do you think he will accept?”

“I can’t say,” she replies honestly. “You’ve known him half your life—what do  _you_  think?”

For once, Rhaegar looks at a loss.

* * *

A week later, she is once more called into his solar; she’s alone, this time, which gives her a sense of foreboding. “You have received an answer, then?”

“Arthur has agreed. He told me this morning.”

“Just like that?”

“Not entirely. He did have one stipulation.”

“Which was?”

Rhaegar doesn’t have any particular expression on his face other than resignation. “If it works, he says he will wait until the baby’s born, to be sure of its health. After which, he has requested to be stationed back in the Red Keep and have Ser Oswell come to Dragonstone in his stead.”

“I didn’t realize he was so eager to leave.”

“He wasn’t,” Rhaegar says. “He doesn’t want to be around the child in case of a resemblance. I accepted, of course. It was a noble request.”

“Oh. Yes, that is very noble. How soon are we to begin?”

“I would rather not know the details,” Rhaegar says, “but the sooner the better.”

 _Tonight, then._  She can’t help but feel rather like a broodmare. “I suppose you may tell him that I’ll see him later this evening.”

“Very well.”

The tension is too much to bear, and she excuses herself back to her chambers. Absurdly, her only clear thought is:

_What shall I wear?_


	2. Act I

She feels more nervous now than she did on her wedding night. Ashara has been sending her concerned glances all day, but as much as she wants to confide in her dearest friend, she knows she cannot.

When the castle grows quiet for the night, he silently lets himself into her room. The thing to do would be to greet him with pleasantries, to try and put them both at ease, but none come. She simply stares at him and he stares back at her, neither willing to move first, as though if they stay motionless, this need not happen at all.

Fiddling with the laces on her shift, all too aware of what lies beneath, she clears her throat. “No man has seen me other than Rhaegar,” she warns. “I’m not… _shapely_  like other maidens. I’m no Ashara, no Cersei Lannister, I’m—” She straightens her spine. “You won’t like what you see.”

“Would it help if I undressed first?”

“No, that would not help.” She waves her hand vaguely in his direction. “ _You_  have nothing to be ashamed of, I’m quite certain.”

Nevertheless, she knows that all she’s being asked is to shed her clothes—he’s being asked to shed far more. And ultimately, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, nor she; he has no choice but to bed her. Sucking in a breath, she slips the straps off her shoulders, letting the shift pool around her ankles. It is only with severe effort that she gathers the courage to look at him, and what she finds in his face is not what she expected. His eyes trail slowly down her body, past all the imperfections she lives with every day. She wants nothing more than to cover herself, but what’s done is done.

“Rhaegar’s grown used to it,” she says to break the silence. “I know I’m—”

“Elia, stop.” Something about the way he says her name, devoid of any titles or honorifics, makes her obey. “You’re beautiful.”

“You have to say that,” she mutters. He frowns, as if she’s a puzzle he can’t figure out. “Well, go on then. Your turn.”

He gives a curt nod, and it occurs to her that maybe it isn’t just oathbreaking that was stalling him. Maybe it’s something else. He’d joined the Kingsguard at a mere seventeen, and she had never heard of him bedding anyone at Sunspear. He’d had no shortage of girls  _wanting_  to bed him, but could it be possible he’d never accepted any offers? She’s not sure how to ask such a question without making things  _more_  uncomfortable, so must resort to wondering in silence.

She watches as he methodically removes his clothes until he too is bared to her. She had been right—he doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of. She’d never had cause to compare him to Rhaegar, but now it comes to her unbidden. He’s slightly shorter than her husband, but broader and muscled like a maiden’s dream. What truly catches her eye, however, is that his torso is riddled with scars of varying sizes and severities, some silvery-white with age, others far newer, jagged and red.

“May I?” she asks. With an inscrutable expression, he assents, and she traces the scars with her fingertips, feeling the puckered edges and the muscles beneath them contracting. She rubs her thumb over one that slashes across his side and disappears onto his back. “Where did you get this?”

His voice has an odd, uneven tone to it. “I, uh, two years ago I was sent to lead a contingent against a group of bandits that had organized themselves in the hills. I misstepped, but fortunately the man had fairly mediocre aim.” He chuckles at her alarm. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Simon Toyne got me worse.”

“Of the Brotherhood?” He nods, taking her hand and placing it on his thigh. The scar isn’t long, but is the result of what had clearly been a severe wound. “What did he do? I don’t recall you being injured.”

“It wasn’t something I wanted spread around,” he answers. “Before Ser Barristan slew him, he nicked me. Maester Pycelle was irate I knighted Jaime before I sought medical help. Nearly severed an artery, or so I’m told. I don’t remember much after he started pouring the boiling wine.”

She starts to ask him another question, but stops herself. There’s no use delaying the inevitable any more than she already has.

Ignoring her thundering heart, she trails her fingers down his abdomen and lower, tracing the deep indents of his hipbones and feeling oddly gratified when she sees quite plainly that whatever shortcomings her body may have, it’s not enough to stop his from reacting.

“You know, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, we do,” he says, a little sadly. “This is the only way.”

What else is there to say? With a nod, she lies back on the bed and guides him on top of her. His expression holds all the uncertainty in the world.

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?” he asks.

“Arthur, I’m no maid, and I’m not made of glass either. You won’t hurt me.”

When he enters her, it is…strange. Though Rhaegar had not been the first boy she kissed, he’s the only one she’d ever lain with, and she doesn’t know what to think now that that’s no longer the case.

It’s not  _bad_ , objectively speaking. No more bland than lying with Rhaegar. Just different; there’s a gentle earnestness to Arthur’s movements, in contrast to Rhaegar’s dutiful determination, and he’s larger too (a fact she doesn’t plan on divulging to Rhaegar). It doesn’t make it any less awkward, but altogether it’s tolerable enough. There are worse men she could be lying with.

He doesn’t look at her, though, keeping his eyes in the vicinity of her collarbone. She’s at once relieved and disappointed: eye contact might give the air that this is more than what it is, but at the same time, none at all makes her feel rather like a whore.

It lasts no longer than necessary. As soon as he spends himself, he proceeds to begin dressing, and despite knowing this is nothing more than a business transaction, she can’t help but feel dejected at his apparent indifference. While they’re not here to find any kind of happiness, the prospect of him thinking her  _repulsive_  is discouraging.

“Nothing to say?” she asks, trying to lighten the mood. “Was I that awful?”

“No, Your Grace.”

_That_  feels like a slap in the face. “Since when are we on such formal terms?”

“Since we’ve been ordered to… _breed_. If it were under different circumstances, then—”

He cuts himself off and busies himself again with redressing. She almost wants to ask him to clarify, but she understands his meaning.  _If it were voluntary._

It seems odd now, but in all their years of friendship, she’d never gone down that path. Oh, she’d thought him handsome, but pursuing him had never been a consideration. He was Ashara’s brother, her uncle’s squire, nothing more. Yet at his declaration, she can’t help but imagine such a life. No ulterior motive, no awkwardness, just—delight. Starfall or Sunspear, not Dragonstone. Abundant smiles and laughter, and no one to hate her simply because of where she was born.

It sounds nice.

“Very well,” she says. Without further ado, she gets up from the bed and dons her dressing gown. “Have a good night, ser. I will see you on the morrow.”

* * *

 

It becomes routine. Every night at the witching hour, he slips into her bedroom and takes her with curt efficiency, then leaves as if he were never there. A fortnight passes like this, during which time a general sense of dissatisfaction grows and grows until she can keep it to herself no longer.

“Wait,” she says one night before he can begin.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Well, yes. When I agreed to this, I didn’t expect it to be so…degrading.”

“If I have mistreated you—”

“You haven’t,” she assures. “It’s not you, it’s the situation. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t think I can go on for what might be months the way things are.”

Arthur frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Maybe we could…I don’t know, pretend it’s more…just… _more_.” Now that the words are out of her mouth, they sound silly.

“More?”

She doesn’t blame him for not comprehending. She barely does herself. So instead of words, she leans forward and kisses him. Slowly, softly, as one might kiss a lover. Arthur’s  _not_  her lover, at least not by choice, but she wonders if pretending might not be the worst idea. To drive home her point, she gently pushes him down on the bed and sits astride him.

Is it her imagination, or is there desire in his eyes?

Without a word, she takes him inside her and slowly begins moving, her hands braced on his chest. Already it feels different; different even from the time she’d tried this with Rhaegar. He hadn’t objected exactly, but it hadn’t improved things either and it had only been the once. Now, though…she hears Arthur’s breath hitch as he slides his hands up her thighs.

“Is this all right?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s—yes.”

Encouraged, she quickens her pace. It almost brings her to tears when she feels arousal stir; gods only know how long it’s been since the last time she felt that. It helps that Arthur’s eyes never leave hers, furthering the illusion that there’s more to this than a contract. Her nails dig into his chest as her pleasure builds and builds, until finally,  _blessedly_ , it overcomes her. She hears Arthur swear under his breath and a moment later he loses himself. That her being brought off had brought  _him_  off is a downright heady feeling.

“ _That_ ,” she says when she manages to speak, “is what I meant.”

“We shouldn’t find enjoyment from this.”

“You’re right,” she says. “But Rhaegar never forbid it, did he?”

“No,” Arthur acknowledges with a frown. “But—”

“It’s not like there are any  _feelings_  involved,” she interrupts. “If we’re already being told to do this against our will, what’s the harm in making the best of it?”

“I suppose.”

“So it’s settled then,” she smiles. “Now, where were we?”

* * *

 

Everything changes after that. Despite still knowing  _why_  he comes to her room every night, despite the vague feelings of guilt, it’s hard to protest the nights that follow. More often than not, the minute he shuts the door she pounces on him, positively yearning for his touch, to feel his bare skin against hers. He himself has backed off from his initial reservations, taking her with no shortage of urgency. Usually on the bed, but not always; sometimes, they don’t make it that far and he has her against the wall or the edge of her bureau.

(Sometimes, he pays her fealty on his knees, rendering her so helpless she can do nothing but tangle her fingers in his hair.)

She can never enjoy it  _fully_ , what with the knowledge that this is above and beyond what the arrangement had been, but she’s become very good at ignoring her conscience. Ever since her abortive betrothal tour a decade ago, her life has had few bright spots, even fewer since her marriage, and this feels like making up for lost time. She doesn’t know if Arthur still drowns in self-hatred over his vows being broken, but perhaps he’s in the same boat as she. No matter the wrongness, it feels too good to stop.

It is simultaneously endearing and a constant surprise to learn his habits, that he prefers her taking charge and that he makes it a policy to never leave her unsatisfied and that he likes it when she gasps his name.

She is all too happy to oblige. In fact, more than once when she passes him in the halls of Dragonstone, she heavily contemplates dragging him into the shadows and having her way with him there, covert and filled with the thrill of knowing they could be caught at any time. But such a thing would be far too dangerous, so she contents herself with their nightly encounters.

Most nights they do only as they’ve been bid, but some nights—nights she doesn’t tell Rhaegar about—are spent otherwise. She shares with him her fears of what could happen, what  _would_  happen if Aerys continues to rule much longer; he shares with her tales of all his travails and (after some prodding) his own insecurities, both as Rhaegar’s sworn sword and as his father’s son. And he makes her laugh, something that she had sorely missed.

They always eventually lie together, though, and when Arthur comes in tonight she has no reason to expect otherwise. Except that he looks utterly exhausted, and instead of greeting her as usual, he flops down on the bed in a decidedly un-Kingsguardlike fashion.

“You’re going to have to do all the work.”

“Don’t I always?” she teases. He groans a protest, and she asks, “What happened?”

“Your uncle happened,” he says. “He’s nigh on fifty, he should not be so tireless.”

Elia snickers. “He  _is_  my mother’s brother.”

“Some sympathy would be nice,” he grumbles.

Overcome with a sudden burst of affection, she prods his side. “Turn over.”

“What?”

“Just  _do_  it.”

While he skeptically obeys, she plucks her bottle of jasmine oil from her vanity and pours a generous helping onto her hands. Ignoring his questions, she straddles his back and slowly begins to knead his muscles from base to neck.

His already halfhearted protests fade away as she presses her knuckles into the numerous knots, massages the tension from his hands. She remembers doing this for Oberyn long ago, before he learned to pace himself with training; the movements come back to her as easily as if she’d done them only yesterday. It lasts longer, for Arthur doesn’t squirm the way Oberyn did, but she likes the inadvertent moans he lets out when she loosens a particularly troublesome gnarl. It’s also a queer—but not unwelcome—feeling to see him giving in so thoroughly to her actions. Not that she’s given him reason to be untrustworthy, but she’d always known him as someone who never let his guard down. For him to seemingly not care at all that he’s at her mercy is…enchanting.

He’s fast asleep by the time she finishes, and she steals a moment to watch him. In slumber he looks younger, a new-made knight instead of a Kingsguard nearing his thirtieth nameday.

It makes her wonder where he’d be now, had he not been offered the position so many years ago. Would he still be in Sunspear, perhaps as the captain of Doran’s guards? Or would he have returned to Starfall as its castellan? Or would he gallivant around Essos as a sellsword? Or would he have settled somewhere else, married some noblewoman and had half a dozen children?

(Or would they have ended up here all along? Is this their fated path?)

She knows she should nudge him awake so they can get on with things, but instead, she blows out the candles and slides in beside him. He rouses somewhat and demurs, “We’re s’posed to—”

“Tomorrow.”

Half-asleep, he forgets. Forgets that turning onto his side and drawing her into him would very much be against the rules. They’re supposed to lie together and then be done with it; he is not supposed to remain behind, and she is not supposed to let him.

But let him she does, and she falls into the most restful sleep she’s had in years. He is gone by the time she wakes the next morning, but in his place is a pink wildflower. With a secret smile she can’t seem to get rid of, she happily tucks the fresh bloom into her hair.

* * *

 

He doesn’t stay again, and she’s too cowardly to ask him to, but the moment of domestic intimacy changes things. She begins to…well,  _look forward to_  isn’t exactly it, but she does have to remind herself on a regular basis that the only reason he’s here is to put an heir in her and nothing more. As more days pass, she feels it all spiraling to a place it shouldn’t go—their raw passion turns to something more familiar, she takes to distracting herself with embroidery after supper to while away the hours before he comes to her room, it is a conscious effort to stop from grinning when he kisses her like…like…

She should call a halt to all this, to set him straight—set them  _both_  straight—and eventually she decides she will do just that. She can’t afford for this to become something it isn’t. She needs to return to when this felt like infidelity, to when this felt  _wrong_ , to when she didn’t  _ache_  for Arthur’s presence, to when he didn’t occupy her thoughts morning, noon, and night. She tries to picture Rhaegar’s face after he leaves, and for a few seconds, she succeeds. But then his silver hair turns black, his eyes from indigo to violet, his coldness into burning heat. The frustration at acting more like a silly child than a grown princess is almost unbearable. She prays to the gods for help.

It doesn’t occur to her to specify what  _kind_  of help, until fifteen weeks from that first night when her world is upended.

She’d been feeling tired for a while but hadn’t thought anything of it, until Ashara pointed out that she hadn’t yet asked for any rags lately and how odd it was that she refused several of her favorite foods during meals. She knows what Ashara’s getting at, but doesn’t believe it—how many times had she felt like this over the past five years only to be disappointed?

Except this time when the maester finishes his examination, he looks at her not with pity, but with genuine elation. “Congratulations, princess,” he says. “It is my determination that you are with child.”

Elia stares at him, agog. “You’re…you’re sure?”

“On my honor as a maester of the Citadel.”

She is so dumbfounded that she can’t bring herself to sit through dinner that evening, and Arthur finds her in the exact same spot when he enters. “Are you ill?” he asks her.

“No, I—I’m pregnant,” she says faintly. “The maester confirmed it this afternoon.”

“Pregnant?” It’s as if he’s been doused with a bucket of ice water. “So it…it was Rhaegar after all?”

“It appears so.” The news should be a relief. It should be a  _relief_  to learn that she’s not broken, and yet the look on Arthur’s face makes it anything but. Suddenly nervous, she says, “Talk to me.”

“About what? Rhaegar’s plan worked. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Nothing more to say? I’m carrying your child.”

His voice is like a razor’s edge. “No, you’re not. Not really. It’s folly to pretend otherwise.”

He’s right, of course. That had been the deal from the beginning. The child would be Rhaegar’s, so far as anyone outside the three of them would know. Arthur would lay no claim to the babe— _could not_ —and that would be that. Yet…she knows it’s shameful, but it still feels like a rejection to hear Arthur so coldly rebuke her, as if receiving this news is the worst moment of his life. Then again, perhaps it  _is_  the worst moment of his life.

“So that’s it?” she asks. “I’m pregnant and you’ll go on pretending nothing ever happened.”

“That was the bargain.”

“I  _know_ ,” she says. “But that was before—”

“Before what?”

“Before we shared a bed for four months,” she hisses. “You truly feel nothing? Start to finish, I was just a job to you?”

When he responds, his voice wavers. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…that the idea of never again having you by my side feels tantamount to torture.” She looks away. “Clearly I am alone in this. Go. There’s no further need to have you in my chambers.”

He turns her face towards his, and she’s rather alarmed to feel his hand trembling. “You’re not alone, Elia.”

A beat passes, and then he yanks her to him, kissing her more hungrily than ever. Has it really only been a day since she’d last touched him? She can’t even muster up embarrassment at how eager she is, and as soon as she pulls him on top of her, he shoves himself inside her. It’s rough and uncoordinated and hurried yet despite that—or maybe because of it—she reaches her pleasure in no time at all. Knowing that tonight isn’t necessary, that tonight  _could_  be termed treason, makes it all the more exhilarating.

He follows shortly after, her name on his lips, and she sighs in sated contentment. “We shouldn’t have done that,” Arthur laments.

“Who’s going to find out?”

“Rhaegar,” he says. “He’s made excuses for no one to be in the halls, but he’ll place guards at your door again now that I no longer need to be here.”

She falls silent as she imagines the next six months—nay, the next  _forever_ —of not having him in her bed, of not having  _anyone_  in her bed. She buries her head into his shoulder, overcome with the urge to weep.


End file.
